


Take Me For What I Am

by 99MillionMiles, justanotherdavina



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (but not that slow), Aged-Up Peter Parker, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Disasters, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, M/M, MJ Is Peter's Best Friend And Possibly The Only Character In Possession Of A Functioning Brain, Mature Rating Comes Much Later, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Peter Parker Is His Usual Awkward Self, Peter is twenty in this one and close to be twenty-one, Quentin Beck Is Basically Jake Gyllenhaal But A University Professor, Quentin Beck is in his early thirties, Slow Burn, Teacher-Student Relationship, That's The Perfect Summary, That's it, a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-06-26 23:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19778479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/99MillionMiles/pseuds/99MillionMiles, https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherdavina/pseuds/justanotherdavina
Summary: Not based on the events of Spiderman: Far From Home. Doesn't include elements of emotional manipulation and doesn't follow canon at all. Peter is twenty years old and Quentin Beck is...well...basically Jake Gyllenhaal, but a university professor.All blame goes on Tom Holland and Jake Gyllenhaal's (b)romance and how wonderful they would look together if Quentin Beck wasn't that crazy.Peter sometimes wished he could live a life in which he didn't have to constantly be reminded of his crush on Professor Beck.Unfortunately, the universe didn't seem all that set on that idea.“What are you even waiting for?" MJ whispered. "Just ask him to help you with your thesis or something like that.”Peter saw that Professor Beck was glancing at them from where he was standing, not that far away from them. He couldn't help but sigh, already lost in the man's beautiful blue eyes, when they exchanged looks.MJ elbowed him less than gently. “Think about it. You could ask him to be your rapporteur,” she murmured. “We've talked about this, Pete.”Or: the teacher/student au we all deserve.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As my dear friend and potential love interest in any other given universe literally me just told me (and you can find them here [justanotherdavina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherdavina/), as co-author of this story), "canon doesn't exist in this fanfic and we're proud of it".  
> So. Hope you enjoy! Make sure you read all the tags and are aware that this story has nothing to do with canon. We're here for all sorts of (angsty and) warm and fuzzy feelings, so don't walk into this expecting any sort of actual, canon!Mysterio or whatever because this is basically just an excuse to write some teacher/student au with Jake Gyllenhaal in the lead. We admit it.  
> Enjoy!

Preparing for a test while standing in a bus definitely wasn’t what Peter had wished for his morning. The bus’ erratic movements were not that ideal, and certainly weren't helping him to understand a single thing he was trying to read.  
If anything, he could comfort himself with the thought of seeing Professor Beck in half an hour – probably smiling and looking so _passionate_ about his job as always. Peter had had to beg MJ for her notes all semester because he had been so lost in Professor Beck’s eyes that he hadn’t been able to really focus during his classes.

 _Just a few more lessons to go_ , he thought to himself sadly. _And then maybe I’ll be able to graduate..._

He sighed quietly to himself. What a fucking way to start his day.  
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he prepared himself for MJ's usual teasing. The screen was cracked all over and Peter couldn't even remember when Aunt May had bought it for him, but it was miraculously still in one piece. (Kind of.) Peter looked down at it and instantly checked around him to make sure nobody would be seeing his best friend's text. 

**whats up loser, stop thinking about quentin. get a grip**

Peter rolled his eyes. He didn't even have enough time to type back a proper reply; he was suddenly pushed further down the bus' corridor. He already knew who had so graciously done that before he even turned to look.  


“Hello to you too,” he told his best friend while turning towards her, who was already smirking down at him. “What's the point of texting me a second before you get here?”  


“It's fun,” she replied with a little shrug of her shoulder, looking satisfied with herself. She put her elbow on his shoulder and looked down at his notes, coming up beside him. “Still revising for the test?” She asked, rolling her eyes. “Isn't it a bit late for it?”  
She pinched his hip. “Besides,” she added, “we all know you're a fucking nerd. It's not like you're not going to get the best mark.”  


Peter struggled to come up with a decent response. “Shut up,” he said lamely.  


“Let's talk about something more interesting,” she said, pushing his book closed. “What about you and Professor Bee?”  


Peter sighed. “What about it?”  


“You know what I mean,” she said, lifting her gaze to the bus' ceiling for a couple of seconds. “Stop hiding your crush, Peter. Half the university knows about it.”  


“ _You_ stop it!” He said quietly, frantically looking at his surroundings while trying to slap a hand on his best friend's mouth. (And missing.) “They don't! I don't! I don't even _have_ a crush on him! Shut  
_up_!”  


“Yeah,” she indulged him, if only for a second, crossing her arms to her chest. “And that's why you're _not_ going to be miserable all semester starting today, right?”  


Peter pressed his hands to his eyes. “Stop it,” he whined again. “I just like the course.”  


She raised an eyebrow at his general direction. “It's _history of journalism_ ,” she said flatly.  


“And _maybe_ the fact that he's good looking, alright,” he admitted.  


She pinched his hip again. “Let's go,” she smirked. “We don't want you to miss his last class, do we?”  


“Don't remind me,” he huffed. Peter pushed her along before she could voice out some sassy response, and out they went.

*

**you're staring.**

Peter was brutally ripped away from his wedding plans with Professor Beck – currently busy with his last lecture – when MJ pushed her notepad right under his nose. He glanced down at it, sighed quietly to himself, and pushed her notepad back at her.  
But she wouldn't budge. **stop pining** , she added for good measure.  
He rolled his eyes and whispered to her, “I'm trying to focus here. You're not helping,” he tried to explain, with a vague gesture of his hand.  


“But I'm _trying to_ , you idiot,” she whispered back. “What are you even waiting for? Just ask him to help you with your thesis or something like that.”  


Peter saw that Professor Beck was glancing at them from where he was standing, not that far away from them. They were sitting in the first row; probably not a smart move, but Peter wouldn't let anything come between him and seeing Professor Beck from up close during his last class. He couldn't help but sigh, already lost in the man's beautiful blue eyes, when they exchanged looks.  


MJ elbowed him less than gently. “Think about it. You could ask him to be your rapporteur,” she murmured. “We've talked about this, Pete.”  


Peter was still staring at Professor Beck's big, mesmerizing baby-blue eyes. “I've heard he has too many thesis students already,” he replied, maybe sounding a bit too inconsolable, and put a hand under his chin. He almost distantly wondered when it had been that he had grown so used to staring unabashedly at the professor, and so accustomed to being stared right back at by him during his classes from time to time, too. Poor Professor Beck had to be _so_ used to his and MJ's bitching at one another during his lectures. “‘sides, I probably wouldn't be able to say a single word to him. We're lucky his exam is gonna be a written one.”  


“ _You_ 're lucky,” MJ huffed. “You should –”  


“– and I'm sure Mr. Parker and Ms. Jones can take it from here,” said Professor Beck completely out of the blue, turning towards them all of a sudden and looking at them both expectantly. Peter jumped out of his skin; he tried to stammer out any kind of reply, but Professor Beck's half-amused, half-victorious smirk beat him to it. “Right?”  


Peter felt himself go red in the face. He wished he could just dig a hole in the ground and live there forever. “I – I was – we were just –”  


“It was Gutenberg,” MJ said in his place, looking perfectly confident. “He was the first person to introduce printing to Europe. The father of modern press, if you will.”  


A sudden silence fell in the classroom. Peter gaped at her, at a loss of words.  


“That's... correct.” Professor Beck said, a few seconds later. He wasn't looking as amused as before, now. “Mr. Parker?” He still called, tapping his black pen on the palm of his hand a couple of times, “want to add something?”  


That brought every student's eyes back on him, right when Peter thought he was safe. “I –” he stuttered again, “I don't really –”  


Someone's watch mercifully emitted an annoying _beep_ , signaling the end of the lesson and saving him from public humiliation not for the first time during that semester. “Alright,” Professor Beck sighed, clasping his hands together and dropping the matter. “I'll see you all at the exam. Get out of my sight,” he said jokingly, making everyone laugh. “And don't fail the test!”  


Peter felt a pang in his chest as he stared at the professor collecting his stuff from the desk. He was wearing such a _nice_ blue cardigan that day. It matched his eyes perfectly and made Peter want to sink against his chest and sleep forever into his arms. He would have gladly kept on staring at him until the professor had exited the classroom, but suddenly he heard his name being called again and he was, for the second time that day, shook from his reverie. “Mr. Parker, just a heads up,” the professor said, sounding very serious. He walked the distance between them, letting Peter lose himself into the blue of his eyes even more, “you're a good kid. Just don't sit in the first row if you intend to talk with your friend all the time, alright?”  


Peter prayed to God he wasn't blushing as hard as he thought he must be, being so close to him and feeling his eyes on himself so clearly. “Anyway, I've read your essay,” the professor added, before Peter could say something probably stupid, “but I would like to speak to you about it privately. Why don't you –”  


As MJ rose up, she _apparently_ pushed all of Peter's stuff down his desk by mistake. She left the classroom without even noticing – or at least so it seemed. “Oh my god, I'm so sorry,” Peter stammered for the umpteenth time that day, standing up to collect his things from the ground. “Let me just –”  


“Don't worry, I got it,” the professor said calmly, bending over to get Peter's notepads from the floor while Peter circled around his desk to stand next to him, “but please, do come to my office tomorrow. I would like to –”  


Whitney Houston's _I have nothing_ suddenly blasted from Professor Beck's phone.  


It rang before he could finish his sentence, while Peter stared at him speechless. Even though the song sounded a bit muffled from where it came from, the professor immediately stopped each of his movements and extracted his phone from his pocket, glancing down at it and seemingly forgetting everything else around him; “I have to get this,” he said to Peter, lifting a few more pens of his from the ground and putting them on the desk, “but – but I'll see you tomorrow, alright?”  


“Great,” Peter exhaled, watching the professor disappear from the classroom already, even leaving his bag behind on the desk as he left. “So that just happened,” he added to himself, hearing the music stop as the professor likely answered the call.  


Peter finished collecting his stuff from the ground, dimly wondering who the hell had called him.

*

It took Peter some time to realize his name was being called.  


He looked up at his aunt, who was staring at him expectantly with a tray of food in her hand; “hungry, hun?” She asked him, looking at him worriedly. “You seem to be all up in your head today.”  


Peter glanced up from where he was scribbling absentmindedly on his notepad. “Thank you, May,” he sighed, “I don't think I could eat even if I wanted to.”  
He gazed down at his phone to check the time. “I have to meet up with Ned in less than an hour anyway.”  


That didn't ease the concern written all over aunt May's face. “Alright,” she said quietly, leaving the tray on the table. It was enough to let Peter know their conversation wasn't over. In fact, it was just about to begin.  


“Peter,” she started, sitting down next to him. “Has anything happened at school?”  


“May,” he groaned in reply. She stared him down, waiting for a response.  


Peter put his face in his hands and mumbled, “today was professor Beck's last class.”  


Aunt May melted right away at that, and her gaze on him turned from mildly stern to soft and empathetic. “Oh, honey,” she cooed, “I'm sorry, darling. You'll see him around anyway, right?”  


“I guess,” Peter shrugged weakly. “Maybe 'round campus, yeah.”  


Aunt May's eyes, so filled with sympathy and sadness, only made him feel more miserable. There wasn't a single secret that Peter would keep from her, and his silly crush on Professor Beck was no exception. If she cried, he would cry too, at any given time – like that time he went to homecoming and she became all teary-eyed over seeing him in a suit, _all grown up_ , started crying, and he couldn't help but mirror her emotions and ugly-weeping as well in just a matter of minutes.  


She cupped his jaw, lifting his chin so that he would look her in the eye. “You've been sad all semester,” she told him gently. “You're really upset over this thing, aren’t you?”  
He didn't answer, and only tried to avoid her gaze. But she knew better than taking his silence for a denial. “I know, honey, I know,” she murmured, as a little smile started spreading over her mouth, “but you're so young! There are so many fish in the sea!”  


“Don't say cliche things,” he mumbled, trying to break free from her grasp. He dropped the effort as soon as he felt his aunt's hand gripping him tighter, knowing how useless it was to fight against her determination. “I'll get over it.”  


“Of course you will,” she sighed. And then she smiled wider at him, cheerful again, letting go of him and ruffling his hair just to hear him complain. “C'mon! You should get ready. You said you're meeting with Ned soon, right?”  


“I am,” he huffed. “I guess.”  


“I'll make you ravioli ai funghi,” she singsonged as she left the room. “Or maybe tortelloni al prosciutto?”  


“Anything's fine,” he muttered. “Thank you, May,” he added quietly.  


He glanced up at her, hovering by the threshold. She smiled at him softly, and said, “no problem.”  


Before she could disappear into the other room, he suddenly remembered about having to go to Professor Beck's office the day after and hurried up to call after her. “May!” he shouted, almost falling from his chair with the effort.  


She immediately peered out at him from behind the doorjamb, eyes wild and worried. “What? What is it?”  


“I have a meeting with Professor Beck tomorrow.” He urgently said, watching as his aunt's eyes went even wider. “I don't know what to wear!”  


He fumbled on the desk for his phone, finding it underneath a pile of notes. He typed in Ned's number as quickly as he could. “Will you help me?” He asked his aunt, gazing up at her with eyes full of hope as he dialed the call. “I'm just going to call Ned real quick and tell him something came up and –”  


“Like hell you are!” Aunt May protested, walking the distance between them and grabbing the phone out of his hands to stop him before he could do anything. “Go and have some fun!”  


“But!” Peter whined.  


She shook her head. “We'll pick your clothes for tomorrow when you get back,” she reasoned. “C'mon. Don't be that guy.”  


He blinked at her, confused. “What guy?”  


“ _That_ guy,” she said emphatically.  


Peter immediately sobered up. “Alright,” he nodded dazedly. “Alright. But – when I get back, you said, right?”  


“Right,” she confirmed, sounding exhausted. “I'll pick something nice for you in the meanwhile.”  


“Great,” he said. “Now – can I have my phone back, please?”  


“Only when I see you walking out the door,” she replied.  


And Peter gave up.

*

He couldn't sleep.  
Peter sighed to himself, scrolling down the university’s website page as he kept on desperately searching for professor Beck's office hours. No matter how many links he was opening in new tabs, it seemed like Beck didn’t even exist. He was _so_ tired, but his worries were keeping him up.

 **I still don't kno when to meet him** , he typed on his phone, sending the text to MJ. He considered sending an email to the professor to ask him for information, but it was 3 am already and he didn't want to look _that_ desperate.

 **send him an email in the morning** , she replied. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, pondering whether that was a good or a bad idea.

 **it might be too late** , he argued.

 **just be there at 8 am then** , she helpfully supplied.

He groaned to the ceiling, wishing he could just _sleep_. He wasn't particularly fond of the idea of looking dead in the morning. **I don't even kno what hes gonna tell me**.

 **man up, dude** , she sent back. **its not like youre going to ask him out.**

She sent a winking emoji. **or are u?**

Peter groaned out loud again, wondering why he couldn't just text Ned instead. (Probably because Ned would just tell him to play video-games instead of pining over his hot professor.) **no** , he typed back. He let out another long-suffering sigh, resting his hands on his belly as he waited for his best friend's response.  
A few long minutes passed before his phone buzzed again. Peter looked down at it slowly.

 **just fap** , she suggested.

Peter put his face in his hands before replying. **I can't fap before meeting him!**

**like what, you can only fap _after_ meeting the guy?** she sent back. **the fuck, dude? I'll never understand u guys. ******

******that's not what I meant** ** **

******so u admit u fapped to him before?** ** **

******… no. Obviously no** ** **

******u r such a bad liar** ** **

******goodnight. Don't reply** ** **

Hoping she would listen, he put his phone on the nightstand and tried to get some sleep. It wasn't long before his phone lighted the room blue again, and he groaned out loud. He didn't even bother taking his phone in hand; he unlocked the screen, squinted his eyes at the brightness, and opened up his chat with her again. He braced himself for whatever MJ must have sent him. 

****

****[ ](http://it.tinypic.com?ref=2qbyrec) ** **

****

**goodnight** , she wrote back as a caption. He groaned so loudly that he probably woke Aunt May up. 

**i hate u so much**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments and kudos if you liked it! You can find 99millionmiles' tumblr here [(99millionmiles' tumblr account)](http://99millionmilesaway.tumblr.com/) \- or if you don't want to use the link, the url is 99millionmilesaway.  
> Leave us a pizza margherita on your way out too. We're two angry italians and we're gonna touch all of your spaghetti u assholes


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is possibly the unluckiest human being on the planet.

The alarm went off way too soon for Peter’s liking.

It was only 7 am and it was like he had been hit by a truck during his sleep; he was normally used to waking up early, but definitely _not_ used to the thought of having to meet with professor Beck.

Peter vaguely wondered what Professor Beck would want to talk about, while chewing on his breakfast so hard he could probably wake up his entire neighborhood. His aunt certainly did, though. She came into the kitchen barefoot, looking sleepy and pissed off, staring him down in her ridiculous pajama like he had just murdered her.

“Isn’t it a bit early to look that gloomy?” She asked, grabbing a mug for herself from the cupboard. It sounded like she had been trying to sound somewhat gentle, but it turned out like something out of a horror movie. “Isn’t it, Peter?”

Peter tried not to at least crack a smile at the sound of his aunt’s voice in the morning and shrugged a shoulder, “didn’t sleep so good.” He admitted. His aunt’s voice in the morning would terrify lesser men, but not Peter – Ned would wait until his aunt was fully awake before even going to the kitchen whenever he would stay the night at Peter’s house. “But I’m awake, now. Uhm. Barely. What about you? Slept good?”

She sat in front of him, grabbing the coffee pot. She waved it in the air a bit all of a sudden, making Peter jump in his seat and hope for the best – namely, not to be splashed right in the face with hot coffee. Then, she filled two cups, ignoring the vaguely scared noise her sudden movements were still eliciting from Peter. “Yes, even though I could hear you sigh from the other side of the corridor,” she said between her teeth.

Peter gulped. He hoped his sighs were, well, the only thing she’d heard…

“Anyway –” she offered him a cup, “– you’re expected to be there at…?” She asked, waiting for the coffee to cool down a bit.

“That’s it, that’s the problem,” Peter replied, considering the cup of coffee sitting in front of him on the table. He was pretty much wildly jittery already, maybe drinking coffee wouldn’t be the best way to go about his day if he were to be like that all morning. “I don’t – Professor Beck didn’t tell me. That’s why, huh. That’s why I’m up. This early. Today.”

May hummed, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. It was weird to see her smile so early in the morning, but apparently she never failed to amaze her nephew. “Right,” she said, before taking a sip of coffee, “but please, do eat some more, at least.”

She eloquently glanced at the package of breakfast cereals, and Peter knew better than refusing her advice. “I can’t eat too much,” he tried anyway. “My stomach is a bit all over the place right now. Maybe I should just –”

“Eat,” she said, flashing her crazy morning eyes at him. Peter gulped quietly and hurried up to have his breakfast, if only because the sooner he ate, the sooner he could go and hopefully make it in time, before Professor Beck could notice his complete helplessness.

He forced a couple of spoonfuls down his throat, watching as aunt May pulled up the most satisfied expression he had ever seen.  
“You think I should bring something along?” Peter asked, his mouth still half full of food.

May seemed to think it over for a couple of seconds, “just your head,” she replied jokingly, dropping all pretenses of actually taking him seriously, before getting up.

Peter groaned. “What about my clothes?”

Aunt May crossed her arms to her chest. “I already got an outfit ready for you, remember?”

She didn’t appear to be in the right mood for Peter to whine at her about his fashion problems, but he still couldn’t leave her alone. “Please, tell me how I look in them? I’ll go and wear them right now –”

“Peter,” she called, interrupting him, “you tried on your entire closet, more than twice, before you finally decided what to wear...”

She walked up to him to caress his cheek gently, “you’re going to be fine.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, looking up at her as aunt May pressed a hand on his shoulder, as if to encourage him. It always worked like charm; her words were always all it took for him to calm down at any time.

“Come on, come on,” she urged him, smiling and patting his shoulder, “finish your breakfast and go get changed. I’ll give you one last feedback on how you look if you want.”

“That would be great,” Peter nodded, trying for a smile of his own. “You’re the best, aunt May.”

She put the back of her hand against her chin like a diva. “I know. Now, eat up.”

*

Peter got off the bus, a feeling of regret swelling into his chest. It hadn’t been his fault, really, but scared as he was of being late, he’d grabbed the first magazine he could find, before walking out the door. He would have to kill some time in case he’d come too early, right? And it wasn’t like he could use his phone all the time, since he’d forgotten to charge it the night before.

But there he was anyway, with a stupid looking fashion magazine held tight in his hands while he walked quickly towards one of the many university buildings.

“C’mon Peter, you can do it,” he murmured quietly under his breath, hoping nobody would hear him talk to himself, but also way too nervous about the upcoming meeting with Professor Beck to really give a damn. “You just go there, you shake his hand – do I shake his hand? Do I?”

He fought the impulse to put his face into his hands and just walk like that until night would come. “Shit. Shit, shit, oh gosh.”

With his stomach tied in a knot of nervousness, Peter walked up to the Professors’ office building, ambling in and trying to find the right way to Professor Beck’s office without wasting too much time in the meanwhile.

“See,” he mumbled to himself, letting go of a sigh as he finally found the right office in the building, “wasn’t that hard.”

He read Professor Beck’s name on the plaque beside the door a couple of times, just to double-check and calm his anxiety, while clenching his hands around the magazine absentmindedly. Peter swallowed around nothing and sat down, waiting for him.

He tried to calm himself down. Rationally, he knew it was stupid to stress _that much_ about a simple meeting with a professor; but Professor Beck was definitely much hotter than any university teacher had any right to be, and Peter could feel himself ascend among the angels of heaven every time he met his big, beautiful blue eyes. He didn’t really know how he would survive the meeting, worried as he was of passing out and going to heaven as soon as the professor would shake his hand.

He wondered what they would feel like, his hands. Would they be soft? Or hard, maybe? Would Peter be able to know the way the professor held his pens and typed on his computer keyboard, just by feeling the lines of his fingers and the planes of his hands? Would he shake Peter’s hands firmly or gently? Would his hands be _warm_?

He thought of his hands some more, trying not to squirm in his seat and keep himself from entering any dangerous zone of thought. Peter looked down at his lap and unclenched his hands from around the poor, innocent, fashion magazine he apparently was trying hard to choke.  
Now that he had his eyes down there, with his own in his field of vision and resting on his lap around the magazine, he realized that yes, maybe he had no idea of how Professor Beck’s hands would feel, but he certainly knew _his_ were way smaller in comparison.

He distantly reminded himself to just _get a grip_ and stop thinking about his Professor’s hands, (or any other body part, really) as his imagination raced up to a whole new level.

Peter pressed a hand to his thigh gently, spreading it open on his pants and just… tightened his hold on his own thigh a bit, as to feel it better underneath his palm through the fabric of his jeans, releasing a tight and shuddering breath.

He blinked at the pink cover of the fashion magazine, when his hand came in contact with it accidentally and all of a sudden reality hit him back like a truck, making him realize that was just _his_ hand and _not_ Professor Beck’s.

Gosh, he really needed to get that damn grip.

He withdrew his hand with a low groan of frustration and crossed his arms to his chest. When did he become so desperate, anyway?

He glared at the happy-looking woman on the first page of the magazine. Perhaps, Professor Beck would like her, with her blonde hair and clear, light eyes, her beautiful mouth stretched into a smile. He was probably straight anyway – not that Peter would stand a chance of sleeping with him if he were gay, or bi, or whatever, but Professor Beck just _looked_ very much straight.

Peter sighed to himself, and set his mind on reading the damn magazine just to kill some time.

Only, he wasn’t expecting it to be that boring. He hadn’t slept much, obviously, and he felt his eyes close on their own.

*

“Mr. Parker?”

Peter frowned at himself in his dream. Were hyenas supposed to talk? And were them supposed to know his last name?  
He tried to say something in return, but his mouth didn’t move.

“Mr. Parker. Mr. –”

Professor Beck’s hand landed on his shoulder all of a sudden to gently wake him up; but Peter was dreaming of hyenas and Mufasa and woke up with a yelp, immediately losing his balance as he found Professor Beck’s big blue eyes staring into his as if he was some kind of alien. Peter almost fell from the chair while letting out the most ridiculous gasp he had ever heard himself emit.

His hand flew to his chest, before he could even register his own movement. “Jesus,” he breathed out, as the fashion magazine fell onto the floor with a loud, vaguely comic _slap_ sound.

Professor Beck smiled apologetically at him, and Peter finally recognized his eyes as those of a normal human being and not an alien, arrived to collect him from Earth and imprison him in its very cool, very scary spaceship. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” the professor muttered, looking somewhat amused.

Peter shook his head, mumbling something close to a _not a problem_ as he leaned over to pick up the magazine, before finally rising from the chair.

He saw the professor’s eyes linger on it for a moment, and warning signs went off in his head, louder than his morning alarm. Peter gaped a couple of times, trying to come up with a reasonable excuse before realizing how stupid he would sound anyway; “it’s not mine,” he just cracked out, stammering all over the words, “I just found it, yeah – it was, like, here and I found… it,” he said pathetically.

He knew he most likely sounded everything but convincing, but still prayed to God the professor would believe him. “In fact,” he added, putting his fashion magazine on the same chair he had been sitting on while waiting, “I will… leave it here. Because I don’t own it. Since it’s not mine.”

The professor blinked at him. “At all.” Peter concluded.

“Sure,” Professor Beck said after a couple of seconds, “come on in.”

He paced to the door, fumbling with his bundle of keys in order to find the right one. Peter gazed at the professor’s back, finding the pattern of his shirt particularly interesting. It was rolled up at the elbows, baring soft-looking skin that really had no right to be as tanned as it was.

Seriously, apart from that very specific, _very_ hot man wearing it, the professor’s shirt was all but extraordinary; but Peter needed something to look at, so he could avoid opening his mouth and say something stupid (as usual).

As soon as Professor Beck pushed the door to his office open, Peter felt the anxiety reaching places inside his body he didn’t even know he had.

“Alright,” the professor started, circling his desk to reach his chair and sit down on it. “Do you mind closing the door, please?” He asked gently, while moving some papers from the sleek surface to clear the place Peter was meant to sit before.

Peter nodded briefly and proceeded to shut the door softly behind himself, before sitting down as well.

Not that he could get up and _run away_ from there anytime soon, but sitting in front of Professor Beck was not as easy as he had previously imagined it to be; but he wished he just _could_.

“Alright,” the professor started, probably noticing Peter’s desperate desire to kill himself, looking fleetingly at his computer screen. He frowned at it for a second, but then the tension on his forehead went away as quickly as it had appeared, when he turned his gentle eyes back on Peter. “I wanted to talk to you about the essay you gave me last week –” he announced, pulled said essay out from a pile on his left as Peter almost made a face at how _quick_ that movement had been, “– because I found it, huh… how can I say it...”

As the professor looked down at the paper for a second, Peter gulped (hopefully not loudly), wondering what the hell he had done this time. Aunt May had found his horrible, horrible portraits of Professor Beck many times already, so who knew if Peter had mistakenly given the professor one of his… pieces of art.

_Maybe on the back of my essay,_ Peter thought, feeling his heart thumping even into his throat.

Maybe the one where Peter had scribbled his own name next to the professor’s. Maybe even –

“Mr. Parker?” The professor called, bringing him back to reality. “Are you alright?”

“Sorry,” Peter hurried up to say, trying to sound at least 10% less shaken than he felt. “Sorry. Haven’t slept much tonight.”

A little smile tugged at the corner of the professor’s mouth, and Peter could barely resist the urge to just jump on him immediately. “Yeah, I’ve noticed,” he chuckled. “In all seriousness, though...”

Peter gulped again, not subtle at all, “Yes?”

“You know I think you are a good student,” the professor sighed, “so I’m not going to be angry at you. Just don’t lie, alright?”

“I never do,” Peter said quietly.

“Good,” the professor nodded. “Alright. So, where did you copy this essay from?”

He said those words in such a matter-of-fact tone that Peter almost believed it for a second. “Sorry, what?” He managed to ask, after a few seconds of complete silence. “I haven’t – my essay? Copied? I didn’t –”

“I just want you to be honest with me,” the professor said, interrupting Peter’s pathetic attempts of saying something smart.

Peter moved uncomfortably on his chair, “I can assure you it is _my_ essay, I wrote it, um, on my computer, well – at first, I wrote it down on a paper and then I typed it on my computer, ‘cause I don’t –” he sighed deeply, pausing, “– it’s really mine.” He just breathed out then.

Peter could see the pity flashing in his professor’s eyes, as he leaned back on his chair and took another, doubtful glance at Peter’s essay.  
“Alright,” Professor Beck indulged, forcing the paper between his desk and his hand. He directed his attention on his student, “it’s not that I don’t think you could write such a well conducted essay, but I didn’t think you were so interested in the course.”

Peter tried hard not to almost facepalm.  
On one hand, he was glad Professor Beck hadn’t figured out the ridiculously immense crush he had had on him since day one; on the other hand, he couldn’t believe the bedroom eyes he’d been giving the professor the whole semester had been mistaken for simple negligence.

Trying to keep his emotions on a leash, Peter cleared his throat before replying, “I am, instead,” he tried, “I very much liked the course.”

He wanted to slap himself in the face with a skillet, as soon as he finished speaking.

The professor hummed, but didn’t seem to notice Peter was that close to slam his head on the desk.

“Well, then,” he prompted, tapping once on his chin with a finger, “why don’t you send me whatever sources you used to write your essay?”

Peter blinked one too many times, and almost fidgeted in his seat. He couldn't believe how _hurt_ he was suddenly feeling. "What, my sources? You don't – you really think I've copied it?"  


The professor sighed, eyeing Peter and then gazing down at the paper again. "Look," he started, scratching lightly at his beard in what seemed a nervous habit of some sort, "I'm telling you I have some doubts about your paternity over this essay. You've never seemed to care about the course, you've never participated to the discussion, you've always preferred to talk with your friend rather than pay any attention to my classes. You've always written great essays, but this one – it's just..."  


He nodded at the paper, then widened his blue eyes at Peter as he shook his head. "This is beyond academic level. I'm going to need your sources, Mr. Parker."  


Peter sighed and fought against the impulse of letting himself sink into his chair. "Alright," he mumbled. "I'll send them over as soon as I get back home."  


"That would be perfect," said the professor, smiling gently at him again. "Hey, listen. If you really wrote this essay, I'm sorry for doubting your words. I just need confirmation."  


"Yeah, I understand," Peter replied quietly, moving one hand across his entire face. He tried not to yawn as his body finally realized how very tired it was.  


"I suggest you go home, sleep a little, and then send me those files," the professor said, eyeing him with wide eyes. He tended to do that a lot, and his eyes looked even bigger than usual and a bit ridiculous. "You look a little pale. Are you sure you're alright?"  


MJ's custom made meme flashed before Peter's eyes. Maybe he really should have just fapped, even if just to release some tension.  


“Yeah, yeah, I just – had a rough night,” he hurried to say.  


"Alright," the professor sighed, clearly not convinced. "Come on then. I'll accompany you to the door."  


"Sure," Peter gulped, as the professor's cologne hit him hard in the face like a bitchslap when he stood up from his chair. "Huh – thank you for your time. For meeting me instead of, well – just kicking me out of your course."  


Professor Beck chuckled and opened the door to his office. To Peter's complete surprise, he bonded slightly over to collect the fashion magazine that Peter had blatantly lied about just minutes before from the chair he had been, well, sleeping on. "That wouldn't be fair of me. You're welcome, anyway."  


Peter didn't even register his words, too confused by how the professor was still holding the magazine in his hand. "What are you, what are you, why are you –"  


The professor seemed to miraculously understand what Peter was trying to ask to him. "You want it back?" He questioned him, handing the fashion magazine to him.  


"It's not mine," Peter insisted. He hoped to God his aunt wouldn't notice. He would just buy a new one on his way home.  


The professor seemed to not be buying the lie at all, but still evidently decided to amuse him. "Sure, well, I can't leave this out there anyway," he said. "It'll be in my office if you need it."  


"I won't," Peter immediately replied. "Because it's not mine."  


"Alright," the professor sighed. A little smile started to spread on his mouth, and he looked amused and endlessly beautiful. "I'll see you later then, Mr. Parker. Don't forget to send me those files.".  


"I won't," Peter promised. He looked behind himself. "So, huh, I will... I'll be on my way. Back home, I mean."  


The professor nodded. "Get some sleep," he added.  


"I will, I will!" Peter promised again. "Have a nice day!"  


"You too," the professor replied, and went back inside his office.  


With May's damn fashion magazine in his hands.  


Peter cursed quietly under his breath, and off he went.

*

Once at home, Peter tried to come up with some excuses to blurt out to aunt May, just in case she would ask anything about her lost fashion magazine. The fact she she was not at home yet, though, made him draw a breath in relief.  


At least he could relax, even if just for some minutes.  


He lay down on the couch, sprawling on it and showing the entire emptiness of his home how tired he was. Kicking his shoes off, Peter enjoyed the warm and welcoming cushions underneath his back and let out a wearily sigh.  


He crossed his arms to his chest, closing his eyes. _Too bad_ Professor Beck's blue gaze stared back at him from the back of his lids.  


Peter snorted at himself, then heard his phone buzz with a new message. He opened his eyes again, meddling with his phone now.  


**how did it go ??? what happened in his office ?? ;) ;)** MJ had texted him almost an hour earlier, but he hadn't had the chance to reply yet; and those winky emojis just made him want to keep it that way.  


**just came back. Tell you tomorro** he typed back quickly.  


Peter didn't wait for his best friend's reply and yawned once again, _finally_ ready to sleep.  


The problem was that, unsurprisingly, the universe didn't seem to quite agree with that plan; and he groaned loudly to himself when someone came at the door, ringing the bell and shattering to pieces all of his dreams.  


He dragged himself to the door, shuffling his feet on the ground and weakly asked who there was. Ned's gleeful voice felt like a loud trumpet to his ears.  


"Ned," he groaned again, pushing his own forehead against the still closed door, "I'm not home. Please go."  


"Let me in," Ned insisted, knocking loudly at the door. "I have to show you something."  


"What's that," Peter asked, voice muffled by the door. He had plastered his face to the wood.  


"Something cool," Ned said vaguely. "C'mon, Pete!"  


Peter let out a long, very much suffering sigh, and let his friend in. He automatically reached for Ned's hand to perform their personalized greeting, even if it didn't really work out because of how damn tired he was.  


"Dude, you look terrible," Ned helpfully observed. "Did you get any sleep?"  


"I was about to," Peter sighed, gesturing to the couch. Ned hummed to himself, then mercifully lifted in chin towards the sofa so to allow his poor best friend to lay down on it as they spoke.  
Peter let himself fall on it face-first and with a sigh. Ned patted the back of his knee encouragingly.  


"Come on, man, I came here specifically to make you feel better," Ned said, sounding triumphant and very much satisfied with his choices.  


Peter made a vague gesture with his hand. "You didn't even know I was feeling like shit," he tried to argue, but Ned was already in front of him, ready to explain whatever he was up to.  


"That's what it means to be best friends," he explained, "you don't _know_ stuff, you _feel_ 'em." He tapped once on his temple, as to make his point clearer.  


Peter nodded, almost absently, "yeah, right."  


"Did a truck hit you?" Ned asked, smiling brightly at him.  


Peter shook his head no. "Only in my head," he mumbled in reply. "I had to meet a professor to talk about an essay I wrote and I woke up too early," he explained, suppressing yet another yawn.  


What he couldn't suppress where the tears that wet his eyes instead.  


Ned almost grimaced. "It looks like you ran a marathon only to be hit in the face by that truck right after that," he reinforced.  


Peter couldn't help but at least smile at his friend's tone. "Thank you, Ned. It's always a pleasure," he said, trying to force his attention on him even while feeling closer and closer to falling asleep and never wake up again. "So, what was this fantastic thing you had to tell me?" He asked, blinking to get some decency back onto his face.  


"So, I bought the latest version of that game you like and..." Ned searched in his cross body bag for some time, before taking the package out of it, "I'm playing this game only with you, man," he said, proudly.  


Peter, as dead as he was, opened his eyes wide. "Ned, that costs half my head," he hurried up to say, as Ned took place beside him.  


"I know, but who cares. We can play it together, right?"  


Peter put aside his tiredness and nodded profusely, actually moved by his friend's generosity. "Of course, let me just bring my computer over here, wait a sec."  


As soon as he finished speaking, his phone started to ring.  


"Yeah?" He picked up.  


"Peter!"  


If his eyes still were half closed, even after Ned's news, his aunt's voice thrilling into his ear _definitely_ brought him back from the dead. "Where are you? Still waiting for Professor Peck?"  


Peter chuckled softly, shaking his head briefly, "I'm home and it's _Beck,_ May, not -"  


He got interrupted by his aunt's voice, fiercely saying something to God knows who. Peter looked down at Ned, still sitting on his couch and sending him many, _many_ questioning looks. 

Peter shrugged.  


"That's good, hun, you'll tell me everything tonight," May told him gently a few seconds later, back to their conversation. "Look, do you mind doing something for me? It's a very little thing, don't worry, I know you're tired, but it's _very_ important."  


Peter immediately sat up and nodded, ready to help, even though his aunt couldn't see him. Ned kept staring at him quietly. "Yeah, yes, 'course. What is it?"  


May told something to someone again before answering. She always sounded so _scary_ when she was at work. "Yes, honey – so, do you see my magazine on the coffee table?"  


Peter grumbled to himself, gesturing weakly to the coffee table. "There's, like, a dozen of them," he protested, gesturing towards Ned too so to get him to move back on the couch a little. There were magazines even on the sofa, and he was literally sitting on some of them.  


"It's the _Vanity Fair_ of this month," May clarified. "The one with the blonde girl laughing at the beach in the first page?"  


Peter's blood went instantly cold in his veins.  


"Honey?" May called. Even Ned looked startled by Peter's reaction. "Did you hear me? It's important. I –"  


Someone told her something once more, and she shouted back at them before sighing into the phone and apologizing to Peter. "I'm sorry, hun, I have to go. Just make sure to find that magazine before lunchtime comes, alright? I need a photo of the telephone number I've written in the back of it. Please! Love you!"  


She hung up on him before he could desperately confess what he had done. The magazine May needed was definitely the one he had left on the chair just a few hours ago. How could he get it back now?  


"Everything okay?" Ned asked.  


Suddenly Peter remembered. The professor had picked it up from the chair outside and brought it into his office. Maybe he still had it.  


"Ned, I'm _so_ sorry," he said, already running towards the go. "We have to go. _I_ have to go."  


Ned blinked at him, confused and still seated on the couch. "Go _where_?"  


Peter sighed, and readied himself to explain it all to Ned.  


It might be just the last time he ever spoke to him.

*

At that point, desperately calling after them and running up the bus stairs to find a seat and get back to university on time, Peter was sure the bus' drivers knew him and probably mistook him for some slacker who liked nothing more than traveling from place to place in the city.  


He sighed, letting an old woman take his seat just a few minutes later, figuring he would just risk falling asleep again if he didn't stand up. As overwhelmed as he felt he just couldn't stop moving his foot rhythmically against the bus' floor, though, at least to keep himself awake. (Or that's what he told himself.)  


After excusing himself to Ned (and trying to explain the situation to him as best as he could, evidently failing in doing that) he had basically rushed out the door to reach the bus stop as soon as he could, ending up having to desperately run after it as it almost left without him.  


Needless to say, the bus ride seemed to be much longer than it was on a normal day.  


Once he got off, he _marched_ all the way back to the University's office buildings, praying every possible God he would still find his professor there.  


"Oh, thank God," he mumbled to himself, seeing Professor Beck in the distance when he got to his floor. Peter sped up his pace, running after him as fast as he could, "Professor Beck! Wait, I have -"  


He stopped before he could say something embarrassing right in the corridor, where the few people still there would certainly hear him, and waited until he was face to face with his professor once again. If only the damn man would stop pretending not to hear him.  


"Professor!" He called again, not stopping even as the professor apparead to be walking just _a_ little faster. "It's really important! Please-"  


The professor seemed to finally hear him, and slowly turned around to look at him. They were finally face to face, and now Peter could tell him.  


( _Kinda_ face to face, since there was half a span of height difference between them.)  


"Mr. Parker, you're still here?" The professor asked, stating the obvious. He looked at the people Peter knew were behind his back, collecting their stuff from the chairs and the offices and walking past them to reach the stairs and exit the building.  


“Thank god _you're_ still here!” Peter exclaimed, bending down to press his hands against his knees and support his own weight. His lungs were on fire.  


“I am,” the professor said, and his eyes were insanely wide and kinda scary when Peter lifted his own to look at him. “But I'm going home.”  


He obviously wasn't up for academic talk, but Peter just basically _had to_ steal away some of his free-time. He tried to catch back some breath before answering "yes, yeah, I – the magazine, the fashion magazine, it's – I'd like to –"  


He could feel himself blushing to death. He desperately hoped the professor would understand without him having to explain it all.  


"Have it back?" The professor chimed in, with a half amused smile playing on his lips.  


Peter gaped once, feeling like a dopey expression could have probably somehow made his way into his panic-filled facial features and plastered itself on his face. "No!" He cracked out fiercely, willing himself not to be charmed by the professor's smile in such a horrible moment. "But yes," he added, sounding much weaker. "It's not mine, really, I have – I just needed something to kill the time with and –"  


Professor Beck waved his hand briefly, dismissing his words. "You should never apologize for the things that you like," he stated, now looking even _gentler_ than usual (if that was even possible).  


Peter felt an overwhelming wave of love washing over him at the professor's words and at the professor's eyes, so blue and so kind, but fought back against it in order to tell the truth and still have some dignity. "I swear, it's not like that," he tried to explain, but just as he finished the sentence, the lights in the entire building went out, and professor Beck's blue and stunning eyes disappeared from his sight.  


“Oh,” he said dumbly. “What?"  


The professor sighed. “That's why I was hurrying to the exit,” he admitted, and Peter imagined him putting his hands on his hips and shaking his head. “Maintenance work at the first floor. The building's closed until 3 pm.”  


“I'm so sorry,” Peter said, realizing how _awkward_ everything was going to be. “I just, I really need that magazine back, I'm so sorry –”  


“Don't worry,” the professor said, and the sounds that started coming from him made Peter realize he was probably going through his pockets. “Let me just get my phone –”  


Professor Beck's face was suddenly hit with full force by the very luminous display of his phone, with the brightness of his phone screen seemingly set to the maximum. “Fu – how do I turn on the torch on this thing,” the professor said, almost cursing. Peter had to try his best not to chuckle.  


“Please – just let me,” he offered, extending his arm towards him. He would have used his own phone, but last time he checked it was dead. “Just –”  


He tapped the torch icon on the screen, and light finally flashed from the back of the professor's phone. “Thank you,” he said, breathing out in relief. “Now – that magazine, alright. Follow me back to my office,”  


“Yes,” Peter said, nodding awkwardly. “Please, huh... lead the way.”  


The Professor did, in fact, lead the way, and Peter desperately tried not to stare at the broadness of his shoulders or the swell of his bottom or –  


“Where did I put that thing?” The professor said to himself, shaking Peter out of his daydreams. “I remember, it was just here –”  


Peter noticed it just behind some documents on the guest chair, the one sitting opposite the desk facing the professor's. “It's there!” He exclaimed, a little too loud, making the professor jump for a moment. “It's there, on the chair, it's right the–”  


He _clashed_ with the professor. The bumping of their bodies together brought Peter immediately to full alert; especially since he couldn’t see his professor’s face in the semi-darkness and detect his expression.  


Peter stumbled on his own words when he tried to successfully apologize, so he felt grateful, when Professor Beck spoke first. Where was a hole in the ground when you needed it?

“I’m sorry,” he said, directing the torch’s light on Peter, but careful not to hurt his eyes, “Didn’t notice you were reaching out for it, too,” he continued, offering that stupid fashion magazine back to Peter.  


“Thank you,” Peter murmured, taking it back into his hands, where it sadly belonged despite his many denials. “And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to run smack into you...”  


“Is that what they call it nowadays?” Professor Beck asked vaguely, walking out the office just after Peter.  


Peter furrowed his brows, “Huh?”  


“ _Bumping into someone,_ ” he clarified, “do you mind?” He then asked, handing out his phone to Peter.  


“Yeah – uh, no, I meant, no,”  


“Give me some light here,” Professor Beck said, gesturing towards the lock.  


Peter complied, while clenching his hand tight around the magazine. In that position, he could see his hand visibly shaking and he wasn’t sure that was because he was made of walking anxiety or because he had just made an ass out of himself. Or maybe it was because he was tired.  


_Or all of the three possibilities._  


“Alright, thank you,” Professor Beck said, turning around to have his phone back.  


Peter mumbled something close to a _you’re welcome,_ before actually gathering up the courage to add a few words. “It’s my aunt’s magazine,” he offered, feeling the knot his stomach had turned itself into untie, even if just a tiny bit, “that’s why I needed it back.”  


Professor Beck smiled once again, keeping his phone before himself to light the way.  


“It’s just a magazine.” He said, voice sounding gentle and sympathetic. “Come on, we’re going the same way.”  


Peter resolutely didn’t want to spend another single minute with his professor; he was definitely done humiliating himself for the day. “No, thank you, huh...”  


The professor stopped by the stairs, and flashed his phone light straight in his face this time, so that Peter would see his eyes pop up from their sockets. “Same way,” he insisted, eyes wide.  


Peter gulped. “Alright.”  


The professor hummed to himself, leading the way down the stairs. “Remember to send me those files,” he reminded him, probably at lack of anything else to say. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I see those.”  


“Sure,” Peter sighed, clutching the damned magazine in his hand. “I would have sent them already, if I hadn’t...”  


He gestured weakly towards said magazine with his free hand. The professor turned around as he spoke, watched his gesture, and smiled at Peter.  


“You’re lucky I didn’t throw it away, Mr. Parker,” he mused, sounding way too amused for Peter’s liking. They were close to the exit of the building, and he nodded to some of the construction workers crowding the corridor.  


Peter rolled his eyes, unseen by the professor. “Well, yeah. Thank you for that,” he muttered, and tried not to gape as Professor Beck turned around to face him again and smiled gently at him. “No problem,” the man said, opening the door for him to walk first past it. “Have a good day, Mr. Parker.”  


“You too,” Peter nodded, trying to smile back and probably failing spectacularly. He watched the professor as he walked to his car, and sighed to himself.  


“Kid, get out of the way,” a laborer told him all of a sudden. Peter jumped and yelped, tried to regain some composure, and went back to the bus stop as soon as he could.  


What a fucking day.

*

Aunt May peeked out from behind the door, her hair swishing from her shoulders to her collarbone, “Hun,” she called softly.  


Peter turned around on his chair, looking up at her with his fork midair between the plate and his mouth. “Huh?”  


She suppressed an amused smile. “Glad to know you’re enjoying your dinner,” she said, “just wanted to tell you tomorrow morning I have a business meeting so I’ll get up pretty early. Want me to wake you up?” She asked, walking up to him.  


Peter thought about it for a couple of moments and swallowed before replying, “No, I don’t think so. I mean, just the usual, I’ll set an alarm. Thank you.” He replied gently, as aunt May came to rest her hands on both his shoulders.  


She squinted her eyes from behind her glasses to take a look at the computer screen, “How do you manage to see what’s written there?” She asked, changing the topic.  


“Mh?” Peter turned his attention to the screen, “May, the font is not even that small,” he explained, gazing up at her.  


“Hey yourself,” she said, with a playful tone, “don’t make fun of my nearsightedness,”  


Peter raised a hand in defense, “I would never.”  


May didn’t seem to be too convinced, but she eventually dropped the subject, walking back to door. “Oh and by the way,” she said quietly, turning around, “you didn’t find the notes on the _Vanity Fair_ because they were on my _Vogue,_ ” she pulled up an apologetic expression, as Peter nearly heard even his computer laughing at him.  


Just like the rest of the world.  


Just like the whole _universe_ and the aliens on their spaceships.  


He swallowed around nothing, “Yeah, uh, sure – okay, I –”  


“Sorry,” May cut him off, “I know you could have used that time to rest,”  


Peter tried not to sound too crestfallen, as he mustered up the energy not to think at the day from hell he had just finished dealing with.  


“Don’t worry, May,” he said daintily, “it’s not a problem.”  


The woman nodded briefly at that, before murmuring something thankful and disappear from the door, closing it.  


Peter looked down at his almost empty plate, giving it a sigh of desperation. If anything, he had at least tried to help the most important person of his life. Put in that way, Peter didn’t even care about anything else.  


He pushed the dish beside him, finally bringing himself to open his emails and send Professor Beck the folder full of documents he had used to write his essay.  


Waiting for his computer to zip the file, he looked for MJ’s number through his contacts list. He swiped his thumb to the right, putting immediately the call on a speaker.  


“Hey walking menace,” MJ greeted him, “didn’t think you were going to actually call me,” she said, almost _shouted_ into the receiver.  


Peter pressed a button on the side of his phone a couple of times to turn down the call’s volume a bit, “You sounded very threatening on texts,” he explained, making a face at his computer’s slowness.  


He heard her snort out a quiet laughter, “C’mon, tell me, how did it go? You two are a couple now?” She asked, not even waiting a second, before asking again, “Is he as strong as he looks to be?”  


Peter stayed silent for some seconds, while attaching the zipped file to the mail and filled the recipient’s field with his professor address.  


“Yes,” he replied, absently.  


“What?” MJ asked, flatly.  


There was lull in the conversation, before Peter finally clicked the _send_ button and gave MJ his full attention.  


“No, I mean, no – I have no idea, we just _talked,_ ”  


“Does he smell good at least?” She asked, very interested, “that’s important, y’know,”  


Peter deadpanned at his phone, “He’s got a good cologne, yes, but – um, didn’t pay to much attention. Should I walk around scenting people anyway?”  


As soon as he finished asking the question, he heard the distinct sound of MJ hanging up on him.  


“MJ?” He called, hopeful, “You still there?”  


No one answered back, and Peter tapped on the red button on his phone as well, shaking his head a bit and rising from his chair.

**u rlly hung up on me,** he texted to MJ, as he sat down on his bed.

Distantly, he thanked aunt May for forcing him to take a shower before dinner, so that he could just go to sleep right after that.  


MJ sent him a facepalm sticker, probably taken from and old Star Trek’s film.

**you obv need to sleep**

And she wasn’t wrong about it. Peter left his phone on the nightstand as usual and rolled on his back on the comfy mattress.  


The light coming from the computer screen was directly on his face, but he didn’t seem to care in the slightest when he turned around on his side and grabbed aggressively his pillow. He pushed it in a better angle under his head and exhaled an enthusiastic noise as every fiber of his body finally relaxed.

And with no alarm set on his phone, Peter happily drifted to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments and kudos if you liked it! You can find 99millionmiles' tumblr here [(99millionmiles' tumblr account)](http://99millionmilesaway.tumblr.com/) \- or if you don't want to use the link, the url is 99millionmilesaway.  
> We have big fish in our hands and we're not afraid to use them against u


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Peter ever find luck?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there dear fellows. We would like you to know that the next chapter is going to be a little shorter than usual, but also much juicer than usual (if that's even a word). You'll see for yourself at the end of this chapter.
> 
> For now, enjoy!

Peter woke up to the sound of his phone ringing into his ears. He turned on his side, grasping it clumsily. Too bad he forgot he had put it to charge the night before. When he tried to to bring it to his ear to answer the call, the charger’s wire tensed, making his phone slip from Peter’s hands and fall on the floor with a thud.

“No...” he groaned, sticking his head out to look down at his poor phone, “please, be alive,” he whispered, as he finally handled it and turned it around to take a look at the cracked screen. Peter sighed in relief when he saw the time displaying on his phone.

He blinked at the texts MH had sent him, slowly realizing it was already 9 am.

“Shit shit shit, shit,” he threw the phone on the bed, seeing it bouncing on the mattress out of the corner of his eyes, before storming inside the bathroom to wash his face. He then rushed back in his bedroom to wear some clothes, before grabbing his phone back, his backpack and _running_ outside.

“MJ!” He shouted into his phone, when she picked up, “I’m on my way, my alarm didn’t –” he sighed deeply in, getting to the bus station, “– never mind, wait for me?” He asked, hopefully.

“Did you just wake up?” MJ asked.

Peter went gaping a couple of times, “I can’t wait for the bus to arrive...” he murmured, ignoring his friend’s question.

“What did you say?” MJ asked again, “Pete, I can’t hear you well –”

He wanted to slap himself. “I said I can’t wait for the bus,” he explained, almost bleating.

“The just skip classes for today,” MJ suggested with a shrug, while walking inside the building. She well knew waiting for Peter to arrive anytime soon was not a good idea, “you’re every professor’s favorite, they won’t even notice if you miss a class.”

Peter considered her words for some tine, biting into his lower lip. He really didn’t want to miss _any_ class to be fair.

But maybe… just one? He was still tired from the stress of the day before, and he had just two classes for the day anyway. He could use some sleep. “Yeah… okay, I guess you’re right,” he admitted.

“It’s not like you would see professor Beck anyway,” came the reply. Peter snorted to himself.

“You know, it’s not the only thing I worry about, right?” He questioned, rolling his eyes. He glanced at the almost empty street, “I’ve made up my mind anyway. Not coming to school today,” he said in a breath and almost could _hear_ MJ grinning over the phone.

“Good,” she said, and Peter heard some chattering sounds from her side, “Meet me and Ned later at my place?” She slurred in a question, evidently busy with something else (like managing not to trip over the people crowding the corridors).

“Yes, yeah,” Peter said, starting to head back home, “see you later.” He mumbled quietly.

*

His friends were their usual assholes selves, making fun of him and stealing the gamepad from his hands and eating all his popcorn. Peter hated them and loved them to death at the same time.

He had to leave way sooner than he would have liked, so that he could go and work his evening shift. May left him some pasta panna e prosciutto into the fridge for when he would come back, though, so his life wasn’t that bad after all.

He went out grocery shopping with May the following day, played some Minecraft, did all his homework for most of the following week and played with his neighbors’ dog for half a hour. Not a bad weekend if you asked him.

He couldn't complain about it, really. His evening shifts were even rather clement on him and Mr. Aziz even payed him some more than the last times, anyway.  
But the truth was, Peter sucked at delivering pizza. It wasn't his fault New York was full of traffic jams and the blocks not easy to reach, but he knew he was accountable for the fact he wasted most of the time trying to _understand_ where he was meant to go.

It was a rather quiet Sunday evening and Peter was tapping furiously on his phone, seated at one of the various tables inside the place. The red helmet already placed on his head, ready to jump on the motor scooter to take pizzas anywhere.

"Parker," Mr. Aziz called him from behind the counter, "you loafin' around?"

Peter looked up at him, locking his phone immediately to give the man his full attention, "no, Mr. Aziz I'm sorry, I was just taking look on the phone," he explained, trying to sound convincing.  
He really wasn't, since he sounded fake even to his ears.

"Yeah, sure," the man said, gesturing towards him, "get ready, in five minutes you'll have to bring an order to -" Mr. Aziz turned around to the whiteboard hung on the wall, where he kept all the slips of paper with the orders, "- this place," he announced, pulling it from underneath the magnet and slapping it on the counter right after.

Peter got up from the chair, walking up to where Mr. Aziz was standing and took a look at the address, "I think I know where this place is," he mumbled to himself, getting his thoughts in order.

"You better do," Mr. Aziz said, warningly, "you're a great child, Parker, but you're always late and clients complain about it, alright? Do this right," he suggested, gesturing towards him with two fingers.

"Of course, yes," Peter nodded, ready to take over New York with his scooter and Mr. Aziz's pizzas.

He waited for the right pizza to be placed on the counter, before he rushed outside while Mr. Aziz told him one last time to not screw his last chance.

Peter hurried to his scooter, the hot pizza carton's in his hands; adjusted it on the back and take back his phone, to type the address on it.  
He waited, impatiently tapping his thumb to the phone's side while it loaded the right web page.

It was already 9.44 pm - as his phone stated - and he was supposed to get to his destination at 10 pm.

He almost started to chant a pray full of whines, when his phone clearly told him he had to drive almost five blocks from there.

He groaned to himself. "Why does my life have to suck this much, god, please," he said to the skies. The skies didn't care.

He drove as fast as he could without risking his head; it wasn't like he had any superpower beside super nervous trouble of any sort, but somehow he made it _almost_  
in time. He was five minutes late, alright, but still not as bad as he _could_ have been, right?

He found the main door of the building already open, so he hurried up the stairs until he found the floor that was written on his poor piece of paper now ruined but still somewhat legible. He knocked on the door and muttered, "pizza delivery - "

The door opener just barely. And then it slammed closed again. 

Peter heard some fussing from behind the door. He didn't know whether he had to knock again, or ring the bell, or double-check if he was in the right place after all -

"Sorry," said someone behind the door as they opened it, while the sound of feet pressing against the tiles became more and more distant down the corridor that Peter noticed first before a body blocked his sight. "It's - "

"Professor Beck," said Peter, breathless. 

And Professor Beck lifted his gaze from his wallet to look at him with wide eyes.

"Mr. Parker," he said, equally surprised. "What are you - "

He looked down at Peter's hands, finding the answer to his question himself. "Pizzas," Peter explained awkwardly.

"Alright," said the professor, a bit stunned still. Peter could hear voices from inside his apartment, but the professor's body was large enought that Peter could barely see anything inside.

Peter was trying not to gape or look dumber than he was sure he was.  
He cleared his throat, "That's it, um, it's - it's sixteen dollars," he blurted out. He generally didn't like to ask people for money, not even if those were well earned money, he couldn't help. Worse if he had to ask money to Professor Beck.

"Sure," the man replied, "wait a second," he walked back in, leaving the door ajar and making Peter furiously curious of what _those_ sounds were just behind it.  
He wanted to take a peek in, just a little bit, he wanted to know even the littlest of things about him.

Well, that was a bit creepy to think, yeah.

Peter swallowed, trying to push back the thought.

"Alright," Professor Beck prompted, still from behind the door, before he opened it back and walked outside, "keep the rest as a tip, uh, you accept tips, right?"

Peter hoped he didn't look like he was about to facepalm, because he was this close from doing so.

"Y-yeah, I do," he replied quickly, "thank you, professor -"

"Quentin," the professor interrupted him.

Peter's eyes widened, "what?" 

"Outside the university I'm just Quentin," he reinforced, looking gently at him.

"Mh, sure, right - uh, yeah. Anyway, sorry for the - sorry I was late, and thanks, yeah, thank you for the tip," he managed out, taking the money his professor was still handing him.

God, he was such a mess.

"Don't mention it," he replied, "right, did you see my email?"

Peter legitimately panicked. "Your - your email?"

"Yes, the one in reply to yours," Quentin explained, before taking a real and good grasp on the situation, "I'm afraid you didn't, am I right?"

He didn't look angered or bothered by it, but Peter couldn't help feeling a bit stupid for not checking his emails through the weekend. He just assumed professors wouldn't reply to those on Saturdays and Sundays.

"I'm sorry, I must have forgotten, I - I'll take a look at it -"

Quentin shook his head briefly, in time with another noise from inside his apartment, "No need to, just... I believe you must have sent me the wrong folder,"

At that, Peter felt the world crushing him down and half his professor's neighbors laughing at him.

" _What?_ " He replied, appalled. "What do you, what do you,what do you - what do you mean?"

Quentin looked behind his shoulders, then sighed quietly and smiled gently at Peter even if it was clear that he was trying to speed things up. "My office will still be under maintenance tomorrow," he said. "Can we meet up at that bar just at the gates? I would tell you right now, but," he gestured to Peter, "you have the - the deliveries, and I have - "

He gestured behind himself, at what Peter could _not_ see. Peter gulped.

"Su - sure," he said, sounding probably like he was choking on something. "What - what time?" He remember to ask, not wanting to come hours early this time.

The man shrugged. "What about ten am? Do you have classes at that time?"

"It's - it's perfect," Peter said, even if at the moment he couldn't remember his agenda for dear life. "See you, uh - see you then? Tomorrow? At ten am?"

Quentin looked amused, and trying really hard to _not_ look amused. "You got it," he replied, covering his mouth with his hand. Probably hiding a smirk or something. 

"Alright," Peter said, a little breathless. "Alright."

As he walked out the building, Peter felt the need to just stop for a second and take a deep breath in.

Professor - Quentin, _Quentin_ had asked him... out?

He knew he didn't have any more deliveries for the night, so he took out his phone from his jeans' pocket and typed a quick text to MJ.

**I think professor beck just asked me out**

He massaged his temples, impatiently waiting for his best friend's reply.

**what. what. the fuck u sayin**

**i know. he ordered a pizza, I delivered it to him and that's it**

MJ didn't take long to send him a text back, **U CALL ME RIGHT WHEN YOU GET BACK HOME**

Peter tried to collect his thoughts and even himself, to be honest.  
He breathed in, gulping fresh air with every intake. He needed to take some time to realize what had just happened, because he couldn't really believe it himself.

He looked up at the building he had just exited and felt a warm feeling spread into his chest. 

Damn, he had a date with his professor. Didn't matter if it really was one, Peter just wanted to believe it that way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehe this is what we feel when you eat pineapple pizza. How does it feel huh how does it fEEL HUH
> 
> Leave kudos and comments or we're gonna hunt your fettuccine


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is a walking disaster, we love him just like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I want to apologize for the delay of this chapter, BUT also wanted to thank you all for your comments and kudos you left on the past three chapters. We will get to them really soon, in meanwhile we hope you'll like this chapter !!

Peter had been wrong. He _did_ have classes at 10 am. Which, of course, was going to be a bit of a problem if he had to meet his professor precisely at that time.

He sighed, running a hand on his face, while eating quietly his breakfast. MJ was giving him curious look, and given that she hadn't said more than a word since the moment she sat down with it, Peter just _knew_ that couldn't be a good thing.

"What are you hiding, Peter?" She asked after a few more glances, "you're quiet. Doesn't suit you," she murmured, while chewing her food.

Peter shrugged a shoulder, "told you, I'm - I'm just nervous..." he admitted, with a little voice, the littlest MJ had ever heard from him.

She nodded, "Alright, look -" she moved made a gesture with her hand to catch his full attention, "- he probably wants to talk about your essay again, okay? Stop being this anxious, it's not like he's gonna ask you to marry him," she reasoned, "plus, told ya I'm gonna let you have my notes,"

Peter knew she was right, but anxiety was anxiety, and it usually took more than a few words to make it go away.

"Yeah, I know," he bleated out, "but... uh, doesn't help he asked me if I copied my essay and - and I didn't, and then there's the magazine and -"

MJ reached out for him to stop his hands from fiddling even more with his phone on the table, "Just stop," she said firmly, "you're giving yourself a hard time for nothing. You didn't copy it, if he still thinks you did after you meet him, then..." she seemed to think about the proper words for some seconds, then shrugged and added: "just screw him, seriously,"

Peter sighed and let go of a breath with what seemed to him a huge effort, before nodding to his best friend's words, "I didn't read his email," he mumbled, already feeling miserable.

MJ frowned, "his what?"

"His email. I sent him the folder of sources I used for - don't give me that look," he whined, when MJ looked this close to just dig a pit in the café's floor and throw him in, "I thought professors didn't reply to emails on weekends," he continued, explaining his reasons.

MJ pouted briefly, "Yeah, you have a point," she said.

Peter looked at his empty coffee cup and a vague memory of aunt May teaching him how to the _montagnella_ in the coffee pot crossed his mind. A smile tugged on his lips at that.

He looked up at MJ, who was stuffing her mouth full of food now and his smile turned into a genuine but quiet laughter.

"What?" She asked, voice muffled behind all that food. Then, something clicked in her mind, "you should look at yourself when you eat, think it's a pleasure to seat in front of you all the time while you chew disgustingly? Breaking news, _it's not._ "

That only made Peter laugh even more.

Nobody else could possibly ever notice the way her features softened at that, but Peter saw right through her and smiled at her when she pretended to look away. "Thank you for the notes," he said again. "You're always saving my ass."

"It's a good ass," she shrugged.

They hurried to class as soon as she finished her breakfast. Peter spent most of the time aautomatically taking notes, looking at his hand as it held the pen he was writing with but not really registering anything of what he was was hearing or transcribing on his papers. He had really wanted to check his emails before coming to school today, but the night before he had been way too tired and had thrown himself on his bed as soon as it got into his line of sigh; then that same morning he had been busy taking a shower, trying to come up with something nice to wear, listening to his aunt asking him why he was so nervous and having to come up with excuses, and then he had met some old friends on the bus and finally MJ, who always managed to make him forget about everything else that wasn't what they were talking about at the moment.

That was the reason why, when they walked to the bar together, Peter suddenly realized he had yet to see his emails; he was already regretting his stupidity when MJ grabbed his arm, staring at him with wide eyes. "Pete?" She called. "You look a little faint there, dude."

"Because _I'm_ gonna faint," he said breathlessly. "Oh God. Oh fuck. He said I sent him the wrong email, but I - I didn't even _see_ what the hell I've sent him - "

MJ immediately shoved a hand in his pockets, extracting his phone from the back of his pants with no grace whatsoever. "Goddammit, Peter," she bitched at him, "you're such a mess - what even _is_ your security code! We have to see right now!"

Peter tried to grab his phone back, stopping her from punching in random numbers to get his phone to unlock. "Stop it!" He yelled. "You're - see! See what I meant! Now we have to wait thirty seconds!"

MJ got her own phone out of her pockets. "Just log into your email account with - "

Peter didn't _see_ Professor Beck approaching, MJ did.  
She stopped talking as soon as she saw him sitting outside, and slapped a hand on Peter's forearm to get his attention.

"What?" He asked, looking down at the arm his friend had just hit brutally.

She just gestured towards Professor Beck with a tilt of her head and Peter turned around, immediately forgetting about his phone and his email account and the security code and the wrong folder he'd sent - everything.

"Shit," Peter whispered, his face already too pale to be real, "shit, I've gotta go,"

"Seems like it," she stated, smirking at him in the forthcoming teasing, "don't let your man wait for you," MJ joked, fighting back a quiet laughter, "remember to breathe. See you later," she said, patting her friend on his chest.

"Yeah, yes, alright," he managed out, already in another dimension of reality.

Peter swallowed around nothing, glancing one more time at his professor. He didn't seem to have noticed him.  
He was seated at a table outside, with a small cup beside his elbow and a newspaper before him.

A _newspaper._

That reminded Peter of that damn _Vanity Fair_ magazine.

He braced himself with a sigh. There was no way he could avoid that situation anyway. So, he pushed his phone into the pocket of his jeans and strolled outside.

Clutching his hands around the bag's stripe across his chest, Peter walked up to where the man was sitting and cleared his throat briefly, "Sorry I'm late, again, I - well -"

"Good morning, Mr. Parker," the professor said, interrupting him, "take a seat," he suggested, gesturing towards the chair in front of him.

Peter vaguely kept wondering what the hell he had ever sent the professor, while occupying his seat.

God, he was trying so hard not to embarrass himself as usual.

Professor Beck took a sip from his cup and hummed, "I was surprised to see you yesterday," he offered Peter a gentle and warm smile, "got to be honest, didn't expect it."

Peter felt the need to run away right there and then.

"My aunt has always done a lot for me, helping is the least I can do," he said, suddenly feeling very confident. And yes, maybe sounding a bit too much defensive.

But Professor Beck didn't seem to be bothered by it. He just nodded in agreement. "Now, back to the reason why we're here," ha started, closing the newspaper and pushing it aside. “Have you seen what, huh – what it is that you sent me?”

Peter wanted to die. He shook his head and bit his tongue so he wouldn't say what the professor must know already anyway; that he didn't have any time to check, that he had _forgotten_ to check, that he was a walking pansexual disaster and that –

_Gosh_ , had Professor Beck shaved differently that morning? He looked amazing. Maybe it was because he was wearing blue, which only made his eyes look darker and softer at the same time. How could a man look so handsome and _soft_ at the same time? Was that even legal? That couldn't possibly be legal. Absolutely not. Peter should just call the authorities and throw him in jail. That way all his problems would, like. Fade away. And then –

Professor Beck was still speaking. He had probably asked Peter a question, since he was looking at him expectantly.

Peter prayed to god to be doing the right thing and said, “huh – sure.”

“Great,” the professor nodded, smiling at him. “That would be great, since those photos were amazing! Not quite what I was looking, um, _for_ , but. You're talented, you are.”

Peter gulped. What the _fuck_ was he talking about now.

“It's going to be next Thursday,” the professor said. “I believe there's going to be quite a crowd. She's a very important journalist, she's cast some light on some very interesting problems of our society and time and we're very honored to have her. I'll email you the details, alright?”

“Alright,” Peter nodded, without a clue of what the hell he was agreeing to.

“That's great”, smiled the professor. “Now, though. Back to the files that you've sent me.”

He remained quiet for a second or two, which only made Peter all the more nervous. Professor Beck avoided his gaze; he sipped at his coffee again, looking like he was looking for the right words to use. Peter felt himself sweat in the silence.

He suddenly remembered. He had once jokingly sent a photo of himself in a – rather slutty pose to MJ, just to make fun of a boy who had tried to hit on MJ by sending her nudes that she definitely hadn't asked for. Peter had posed, taken the picture, sent it to her knowing it was safe with her and that, anyway, he wasn't even naked in it. Not very much dressed, sure, _alright_ , but not naked. And surely, anyone would have realized it was a joke.

Right?

_Right?_

"As I said, they are not quite what I was expecting, but, um, did it have something to do with your resources?" Professor Beck asked, sounding interested, "They're good photos, but... what does the pride have to do with your essay?"

Peter gaped. "What," he said, not even able to shape his tone into a question-like one.

"The photos, you sent me a folder of photos," the professor said, yet once again, with a vague gesture of his hand.

Peter hoped he could fall into a black hole and never be able to crawl back out of it. Not that he could ever anyway, that was the thing about black holes after all, nothing could escape them.

Yes, black holes were the right choice.

"I - I have - I must've sent the wrong... thing," he mumbled out.

At least it wasn't the photo he'd sent to MJ.  
Even that thought, though, wasn't enough to make him feel relieved, since he _knew_ the Pride folder was not just... the Pride folder.

"Oh," Professor Beck said quietly, staring at him, "alright, so -"

"I'll send you the right thing," Peter cut him off, clearing his throat when he realized that wasn't a very polite thing to do.

"Yes, that's... better," Professor Beck replied quietly.

Silence fell upon them for the longest seconds of Peter's entire life. He was _this_ close to just standing up and leaving the university forever when the professor suddenly pulled his laptop out of his messenger bag; Peter felt actual horror rising up inside his body as he watched while the professor turned it on, pressed a few keys on the keyboard, and then smiled lightly at him while his laptop probably loaded.

"Let me just say," he started, gently, "that you really have no reason to look like that, Mr. Parker."

Peter - probably pale as a ghost, white as a mozzarella, and close to death already - struggled to find a response and then just muttered, "like what?"

The professor shrugged, still smiling reassuringly at him. "Like you have a reason to be ashamed of these photos," he said, turning the laptop around so that Peter could see the screen too. "These are amazing, Mr. Parker. I didn't know you were such a good photographer."

All the pictures of that year's Pride went running before Peter's eyes, who just stared blankly at the screen as the Professor pointed at some of them with the mouse. "But then again, I know Professor Merluzzo has taken you under his wing, too. He showed me what you did with your project about sea life and how to preserve it."

When Peter lifted his gaze, he found the professor's blue eyes already fixed in his and _very_ proud-looking. "It's not easy to impress him, you know? He's a bit salty, is what I've learned."

Peter really, _really_ was going to answer there. He was going to say that he wasn't so bad once you got to realize what he expected from you, and that he'd actually seen him smiling at him from time to time. But. He didn't say any of that.

And he didn't say any of that, because he finally noticed all the pictures of Professor Beck that he had taken during MJ's basketball game of last season.

At that, Peter felt like he was going to die slowly in his seat.  
The thought of Professor Beck looking at those photos was like a punch of pure shame in the stomach.

"It's - uh," he tried, his eyes faltering from the professor to the laptop furiously, "That was... a good match, wasn't it?" He managed out. Really, he couldn't think of a more stupid thing to say.

Professor Beck, though, seemed to ignore his lame attempt to look cool and turned the laptop back around. "I bet it was slightly different from the time I went," he said, more to himself than to Peter.

Peter frowned, "W-what?" He stuttered, looking at his professor with wide eyes.

"Uh?"

Their conversation fell in a lull for some time. They both exchanged looks for Peter felt like it was eternity, before Professor Beck opened his mouth to speak again.

"Nothing!" Peter almost screeched, preventing him from saying anything more, "I was - I'm gonna send the right thing once I get home, yeah, sure thing I will."

Pride. Professor Beck at the Pride parade. _Since fucking when._  
Peter's mind was full of thoughts racing from side to side of his brain in nonsense dances and marathons.

Professor Beck had just said that he went to the Pride himself, when he was younger. Peter couldn't believe his ears.

Not that he could stand a chance anyway, of course, but a guy could dream.

"Yes, you said that," Professor Beck said, smiling again now.  
Peter forced himself into more adequate thoughts for the moment.

There was a shade of sweetness in the man's eyes, _as always,_ as Peter reminded himself.

"When you'll do that," he resumed talking, "we can _really_ talk about your essay. Alright?"

He seemed to notice how wildly uneasy Peter was, and shrugged just one shoulder in a way that told Peter not to care so much about whatever it was that had gotten him so pale in the face. "It's really not a big deal," he smiled. "You should be proud of yourself - no pun intended. For the photos of the Pride parade, I mean. You really captured the colors, the joy, the...genuine happiness to be alive that is to be found at every pride parade, you know? It threw me right back into it."

As if he hadn't been clear enough about it, Peter thought. There came yet another confirmation, and Peter felt his heart hammer into his chest. But then the Professor chuckled and said, "I went to one maybe eight, seven years ago? My best friends had been a couple for one whole year and their anniversary fell on the same day of the pride parade, so they sort of decided they wanted all their closest friends to celebrate with them. They're gonna get married next week."

He looked so damn _happy_ for them. His best friends. Queer best friends, engaged queer best friends, very much queer while professor Beck clearly wasn't. Peter mentally slapped himself. Of course he had only been there for his friends. Of fucking _course_.

"That's awesome," he deadpanned, even knowing he probably looked dead inside.

"Yeah, it was," the professor smiled, with a nostalgic tone of voice and his blue eyes full of genuine love for his friends. Peter wished he could make it a least a _little_ bit easy for him to hate him. "Well, anyway. Maybe one day I'll get back there."

He gesticulated towards the laptop, where a picture of the Pride parade was still on display. "Nice to see nothing's changed. Not to sound older than my years, but for some silly reason I thought it would be very different from how I remembered it."

"That's not silly," Peter immediately defended. And then bit his tongue.

"Alright, Mr. Parker," Professor Beck chuckled. "Alright. Enough reminiscing for one day, don't you think? Just send me the right files tonight. And remember about what I told you about that conference."

"Sure," Peter exhaled, even if that whole thing wasn't really clear to him yet. "Uhm - how do I know when to meet you again? Is your office still under renovation? Or can I come to your office hours tomorrow - "

"Yeah, it still is," the professor sighed, cutting him off and looking a little desperate. "I feel homeless. I have nowhere to put my stuff."

He miserably nodded towards the direction of his messenger back, bursting with stuff. "Sad."

Peter almost told him that he could have his house if he wanted, Peter included.

"I'll write an email to you tonight," the professor continued, before Peter could probably lose himself in some kind of sexual fantasy. (He was a young man, he thought with his dick, like, 80% of the time. Leave him alone.) "Alright?"

"Alright," Peter nodded, already standing up from his chair. "Uhm, sorry - sorry again for...sending...the wrong folder. And wasting your time."

"No worries," professor Beck smiled. "If you need me, I'll be right here until next hour. I don't have a office," he grumbled.

"Yeah," Peter said stupidly. Did he have to shake his hand? But his own were a bit sweaty. Better not. "I'll - I'll hear from you tonight."

The professor smiled at him again. "Later, Mr. Parker."

Peter smiled back and tried not to collide with whatever was on his way as he walked away.

*

Peter lay down on his aunt's bed, bringing his hands on his tummy. He glanced at her a couple of times, looking at her while she was brushing some rebellious locks of hair back in position.  
She was humming a tune under her breath, adjusting a new pair of earrings on her lobes right after.

"So... who's this guy?" Peter asked, eyeing May.

She turned towards him, "Um, someone from work," she replied, sounding neutral.

Peter frowned, "Isn't that a bit unprofessional?"

At that, May rose an eyebrow to the stars, "Says who," she retorted, before smiling and sitting down next to him. "How did it go?" She asked.

Peter shrugged a shoulder, trying to be cool. "Good,"

Aunt May didn't buy it. "Then why you look disappointed?"

"Because -" He groaned at himself, "- because I sent him the wrong files and it was the pride folder, with - there were photos of him, too," he mumbled out, suddenly feeling like dying again.

Aunt May pursed her lips, clearly trying not to laugh, "you need to start naming your folders. _New Folder_ doesn't sound like a good choice anymore,"

Peter sank his face into his hands, emitting a pained whine, "You're not helping," he muttered, before moving a finger so that he could look at his aunt without taking his hands off, "you think he saw them all?" He asked, almost in a bleat.

Aunt May sighed, vaguely gesturing with her hand.  
Peter reminded himself not to look too much or he would start doingit as well soon or later. He didn't want that trait of his Italian heritage, thanks a lot.  
"Maybe he didn't,"

"Maybe?" Peter sounded desperate, "May, I'm trying to -"

"Did you send him the right files this time?" She asked, interrupting him.

Peter thought about it for some time, "Y-yeah?" He swallowed, "I sent it to MJ first to be sure,"

Aunt May, happy with herself, stood up from the bed and nodded, "that's good. Now, dinner is the oven, and I..." she checked her watch, "I have to go but I'll be back before 12 am, alright?"

Peter sat up, "you know you I can handle being alone for three hours, right?" He smiled, "Have fun, I'm gonna be fine,"

May grabbed her jacket from the closet, "Yes, I know, but I don't you to try and blow up the entire building by using the boiler again," she explained, very serious.

That had been a fun one, though. "Oh, come on, it's been almost three years by now, will you ever let it go?"

He roused from the mattress eventually, walking May to the front door.  
Her high heels clinking on the floor stopped when she stood by the door and turned around to rest both her hands on Peter's shoulders, "Never," she replied, then her smile came back on her lips, "eat your dinner and call Mr. Aziz, alright?" She pressed a kiss on Peter's forehead, printing there the shape of her mouth with lipstick. "Oh, sorry,"

Peter sighed resigned, "Nevermind, I'll go wash my face," he said. It wasn't the first time it happened, it was like aunt May enjoyed seeing that pink stain on his forehead.

She laughed softly, trying to rub it off Peter's skin, "Alright, see you later. Bye," she smiled one last time and walked out the door, closing it behind her back.

Peter sighed deeply and walked into the bathroom, already handling his phone to call Mr. Aziz.

He hoped the man would listen to his pleas. He _really_ needed to get his shifts changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember we have merluzzi in our hands and we are not afraid of using them.


End file.
